by Al Ruksenas
“It’s a lot of conjecture, Chris. And a lot of pushing of the proverbial envelope,” General Bradley said, but did not negate his subordinate’s reasoning.
“There’s no way we can prove anything. We need something solid to grab onto.”
“You remember, sir,” Colonel Caine said deferentially, “that the Russians used to have a special political arm in the Soviet Army under Colonel General Dmitri Volkogonov.”
This elicited a bemused smile from Colonel Jones, marveling at how his fellow officer recalled such details and wondering if General Bradley did remember.
“Their purpose was to wage psychological warfare against the United States. This was in the nineteen‐seventies and eighties. For that purpose they delved into parapsychology and mysticism.”
“Looking back on it, it seems kind of bizarre,” Colonel Jones ventured.
“Yes. But obviously some high level commissars in their government thought it was worth the undertaking,” Caine replied. “It ties in with Jonas Mitchell’s story of a cabal within the KGB trying to work some sorcery to take us over.”
“So, there’s got to be some connecting link here?” Colonel Jones followed.
General Bradley was listening, not sure whether to entertain this kind of reasoning. He remembered the CIA experimenting with mind‐altering drugs during that same period, but in his view this was different.
“We’ll be a laughing stock if we start chasing ghosts and goblins,” he postured. “Do you want to go to the Omega Group or the President and tell him that we’re following a sorcery lead? How’s that for a career killer?”
“True sir. But the effects of certain events are real,” Caine emphasized. “We have dead people to prove it. And Jeannie McConnell is missing. Their collective absence has put us in a very vulnerable position. And if any of our conjecture is even remotely close, the President is in potential danger.”
“Speaker of the House, McConnell, moving into the Presidency is susceptible to coercion with her daughter missing,” Colonel Jones recited. “And Philip Taylor—Sherwyck’s protégé—simultaneously inherits the nuclear button.”
“A double whammy!” General Bradley declared.
“And one prominent link stares us in the face,” Caine continued.
“Victor Sherwyck,” General Bradley said slowly.
He turned to the entrance of the dining hall and motioned for the attendant.
“What was the Vice President’s favorite drink here?”
“A vodka gimlet, sir.”
“Not bourbon?”
“No, sir. He was from New York.”
“Of course. Give us three, then,” General Bradley said and noticed the hesitation in the man. “—in his memory.”
“In his memory, sir. Yes, sir.”
As the waiter left for the bar, the General assuaged his subordinates. “The place is closed, gentlemen. So, we’re not officially drinking.”
They understood.
“I know there are some odd things in play here,” the General continued, “but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t what they seem—freak accidents.”
After setting what he believed was a necessary common sense benchmark, he continued: “Having said that, I should note that Sherwyck was sitting next to Vice President Mansfield at the Cathedral. Someone said he was muttering something just before the statue fell. Sound familiar?”
Caine and Jones were anticipating.
“But no one could make out what it was.”
“It does sound familiar,” Colonel Jones agreed. Then mimicked softly, “Do dee do do—do dee do do.”
“Right, Arie!” the General said scornfully. “That’s all we got—the twilight zone.”
The waiter came back with their drinks. “Complimentary, gentlemen. In memory of the Vice President.”
“Thanks,” General Bradley replied, sounding more solicitous. “We’ll be leaving soon.”
He raised his glass and declared more reverently: “To Vice President Louis Mansfield.”
“Hear, hear,” both Colonels responded. They took a sip.
They repeated the salute to Defense Secretary, Ronald Stack and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Benjamin Starr.
“And a promise to Jeannie McConnell,” Colonel Caine added.
Putting his empty glass on the table, General Bradley asked, “Does anyone know where he came from?”
“It was before my time,” Colonel Caine responded.
“No one ever asked, as far as I know,” Colonel Jones added. “I’m not sure anybody knows.”
“Over time he just moved into the power elite of Washington,” General Bradley stated. “He has an estate not far from Mount Vernon. Influential, rich—and therefore appealing to presidents. A succession of them. ”
“And no one knows where he came from?” Colonel Jones repeated.
“How did he amass his fortune?” Colonel Caine wondered.
“No one ever looked the gift horse in the mouth,” General Bradley replied. “By the way, Chris, you probably haven’t seen him yet.”
“Haven’t had the chance, sir.”
“Do it now.”
“Socially?”
“Act official!”
Chapter 33
The late afternoon sun was already casting a golden hue over the lush April landscape as Colonel Caine sped along the George Washington Memorial Parkway towards Mount Vernon. He apologized silently to himself for his aggressive manners as he weaved his roadster among southbound motorists who were driving more leisurely down the scenic boulevard along the Potomac River.
At the grounds of George Washington’s iconic Mount Vernon Estate the Mount Vernon Highway branched off sharply northwards surrounded by expansive wooded tracts of land. Caine followed the Highway and saw the entrances to several estates in the pristine surroundings buffering Mount Vernon from urban neighborhoods farther north. Their location announced power and privilege.
Caine approached a long driveway that looked more like a street and cruised slowly towards a colonnaded, white Georgian mansion evoking a vague mimicry of George Washington’s own Mount Vernon. Arabian horses grazed on several acres of luxuriant lawns on either side of him. Farther to the right of the mansion was a long building housing the stables and built in the same Georgian style.
Scanning the baronial splendor, his eyes caught the rear section of a dusty green van parked behind the far end of the stables. He was fixated on dark vans ever since the attack outside the museum and this one seemed out of place in the manicured environment of the property.
Caine kept peering towards the stables where he heard the spirited neighing of a horse. Instead of pulling up to the broad stairs extending the length of the mansion, he veered down a paved drive to the stables.
“Wait! Stop! Not that way!” a man shouted from the veranda.
Caine ignored the command and halted near the van at the end of the long building. He hurriedly climbed out, looked around and instinctively adjusted the holster at his belt in case he needed to draw his pistol. He approached the van, looking intently at its rear door and the metal around it. Closely scrutinizing the back of the van, he suddenly felt an adrenalin rush when he spotted the unmistakable hole of a bullet. Caine smiled in grim satisfaction as he circled his finger around the small puncture of naked metal where velocity and heat had flecked away the paint.
He was certain it was the van he marked with a well‐placed shot the night of the attack outside the museum.
A groom came out of the stable and approached him.
“Are you one of the new initiates?”
“Uhh, yes, I am,” the Colonel replied. “What is that neighing in the barn? Aren’t all the horses outside grazing?”
Caine looked past the groom’s shoulder and saw a man hurrying towards them from the mansion.
“Oh, that’s Blaze. Mr. Sherwyck’s favorite. He’s different. Only Mr. Sherwyck can handle him.”
“I appreciate good horseflesh. Can
I see him?”
Before the groom could answer, the man from the mansion—who appeared to Caine like a butler—was upon them and confronted the Colonel.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The groom seemed puzzled and backed away into the stable upon the butler’s commanding stare.
“I’m Colonel Christopher Caine,” he replied casually. “I’m here to see Mr. Sherwyck.”
The man looked at the Colonel curiously, knowingly.
Caine misread the look. “I know. I’m not in uniform.”
“You won’t find him in the barn!” the man said reproachfully.
Something about the man was evocatively familiar, but Caine could not place him. Given the setting and the contrasting situations, the Colonel did not recognize him as the derelict he had seen under the tree in the Mall that rainy evening on his way to the Smithsonian reception.
“Well, if he’s not in the barn, where can I find him?” Caine rejoined with growing irritation at the man’s continued challenging stare.
“Mr. Sherwyck is not present,” the butler finally said. “He has not returned.” The butler avoided saying ‘cathedral’. “There was an accident, you know,” he said coldly.
“I know. When do you expect him?”
“Mr. Sherwyck is an extremely busy man. He has strict rules. No visitors, unless invited,” he said ignoring the question.
“Oh, I’m not a visitor,” Caine replied, and relished the uncertainty that flashed across the man’s face.
“You have to leave! I’ll inform him you were here,” the butler said, as if to mollify the Colonel.
Caine studied the butler’s face, then purposely walked to the stable door and peered inside.
“Leave here, before I call the authorities!”
“I am the authorities, my friend,” Caine said with self satisfaction while observing a paddock midway in the stable. Visible to him was the head and neck of a shiny black stallion snorting inside his enclosure with the groom standing a respectable distance away.
Caine turned and slowly walked back toward his Viper. “That horse wouldn’t have split hooves, would it?” he asked as he climbed in. He turned the ignition, looked penetratingly at the butler, gunned the engine and fish tailed the roadster towards the entrance of the estate, leaving a circle of tire marks in front of the scowling man.
***
Victor Sherwyck opened the front door of his mansion and stepped onto the veranda just as Caine’s car was turning into the highway. He was still dressed in the dark suit he wore earlier in the day at the funeral for the Secretary of Defense. He stared at the front entrance where fumes from the Viper’s exhaust were dissipating into the air. He could still hear the changing pitch of the engine. Sherwyck knew that Caine was on to something. He could tell by the determined shift of each gear.
His attendant returned from the stables.
“Did he see Blaze?”
“Only from a distance, sire.”
Sherwyck’s face turned sullen. He descended the stairs and walked towards a wooded area behind the mansion. A sudden rush of wind stirred the trees from the usual stillness of the hour that quietly transforms late afternoon into evening. He looked up at the rustling leaves and the sky beyond. Approaching night was the favorite time for Victor Sherwyck—especially with the promise of a full moon.
His eyes narrowed. “With the death of the Vice President, we are close to success. Colonel Caine and his ilk will not get in our way.”
***
In a remote park near a small town in northern Arkansas eight teenagers gathered around an evening fire, recounting horror movies they had seen and thinking up scary ghost stories. Several of the young men produced cans of beer and two bottles of cheap whiskey. They passed around the pilfered treasure, laughing, joking and leering at one another with each swallow of the intoxicants.
“Hey!” said Jimmy Gruber as the stories began to evaporate. “We covered the witchcraft trials in Salem in our social studies class. Weird!”
“Salem—just like here!” Jessica Smith chimed in.
“Yeah! We’re in Salem too. Are you a witch, Jessica?”
Everyone guffawed.
“No, but I can bewitch you pretty quick!”
Hearty laughter resounded around the fire, followed by chants of “Bewitch! Bewitch! Bewitch!”
Jessica stood up and postured in front of Jimmy. She swiveled her hips in her tight jeans and slowly pulled up her University of Arkansas sweat shirt to reveal ample unbridled breasts.
Jimmy gaped while the others laughed or smirked. Several girls were tempted to impress by doing the same, but hesitated.
Jessica quickly pulled down her sweat shirt and sat back cross‐legged in front of the fire with her friend Gerri Lindquist giggling beside her.
“Hey! Did she bewitch you?” another of the young men asked to the accompaniment of more laughter.
Jimmy saw further opportunity.
“The Puritans were anal, man. They couldn’t have fun so they faked it.”
“How did they fake it?” someone asked while Jimmy took a swig of whiskey from the circulating bottle.
“They made groping official,” Jimmy said tipsily to the amusement of his friends. “Sex was taboo, so they made it official.”
“What do you mean, ‘made it official’?” Tiffany Hauser asked after a gulp of beer.
“They felt up young girls who said they were possessed by demons. It was part of the exorcism.”
“Come, on!”
“They told us in class,” Jimmy announced.
“Pervert teacher!” Frank Wallace declared while throwing a new log on the fire.
The friends laughed heartily.
“Sure,” Jimmy continued. “What a setup. The young ministers felt up the girls to chase away demons and the girls loved it. That’s why they were so hot to say they were possessed. They accused a bunch of people of being witches.”
“So the Puritans kept feeling up the girls to chase away the demons?” Ted Schwartz said suggestively.
“Yup.”
“And the girls kept accusing people?” Stephanie Wilson asked.
“Yup.”
“And you said you didn’t like social studies,” Tiffany exclaimed.
The resultant laughter fueled by their drink was infectious.
“Hey, I’m possessed,” declared Susie Jackson in a sultry voice.
“Oh, yeah?” the young men chimed.
“Yeah! What about it?” she said and leaned backwards from a sitting position onto the ground.
Encouraging whoops, yelps and laughter arose from the group.
Frank Wallace, who was hoping to get better acquainted with Susie, crawled up to her on hands and knees. He leaned back on his haunches, placed his hands on Susie’s stomach and began to massage, working his way upward toward her breasts. As he did so, her sweat shirt rose above her midriff.
“Oh, oh!” two girls on either side of the pair chimed, as others took swigs of their drinks.
Frank looked lustily at Susie, who returned his gaze.
“If you’re going higher, you better chant something,” Jessica Smith urged to more laughter from their friends.
Everyone looked with desirous interest as Frank stroked Susie’s torso, fondling her breasts with his hands under her sweat shirt then roaming down between her slightly spreading legs.
Soon the crackling fire was the only sound as the high school classmates sipped their drinks and watched the suggestive mock ritual.
Jimmy Gruber hovered above Susie and Frank. He dangled a whiskey bottle loosely in his hand and grandly recited: “Come forth, you spirit from the dark—abracadabra—hocus pocus—I call you Satan from the fire! Come and fulfill our desire—Elohim, Elohim! I conjure him!”
“Hey, stupid!” Stephanie chided. “You’re supposed to chase out a demon! Not call one!”
Abruptly, Susie rolled away from Frank and stood up adjusting her sweatshirt and dusting off her
jeans. Frank looked around, startled.
No one laughed. They huddled in the wooded darkness around the light of the dwindling fire, listening for unfamiliar sounds around them.
“Should we put another log on the fire?” Jimmy asked.
“Why don’t we just get outta’ here!” someone answered.
***
At his estate not far from Mount Vernon, Victor Sherwyck felt a subtle tingling of energy course through his body. He smirked in self satisfaction.